


It's All Good

by TheRealSEHinton



Category: The Outsiders - All Media Types, The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: M/M, Post-Break Up, i just needed this released to the media, it's lich rally 3am and i am tired as shit, omg im sorry for any typos or errors, yuh they broke up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28933671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealSEHinton/pseuds/TheRealSEHinton
Summary: When your break-up’s longer than your relationship, I think that’s a pretty good sign you’re not getting back together. It’s been a while since I ever had that hope.That’s why I didn’t wanna come tonight. I’m finally starting to move on, but I know that if I just saw him, if I just heard his voice, then…“Dallas?”Shit.
Relationships: Johnny Cade/Dallas Winston, Ponyboy Curtis/Steve Randle
Comments: 23
Kudos: 31





	It's All Good

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO good morning jally fandom, hope y'all are alive and well  
> I'm tired as shit I don't got a lot to say  
> I DO wanna mention this was inspired by the song It's All Good, specifically the George Salazar cover  
> k goodnight

Johnny Cade’s bare torso is staring at me with an intensity so unfamiliar, it’s hard to believe that it’s his. In the picture, he’s spread, arched a bit so that every crevice of his body shines through in muted black and white. He’s fuller than I remember, the shape of his ribs still present but not as much as they used to be. But he’s still got those imperfections all over him, the bumps, the tears, the scars.

It’s so vulnerable, I feel like I’m looking at something I’m not supposed to--even though he’s towering in front of me in a frame about ten feet. And it’s not like I can avoid the sight of it, another picture of him is hung up behind me, another to the left, another to the right--the whole building is filled to the brim with pictures of naked Johnny Cade.

Not, like, actual nude pictures--even though they feel nude. But glazed photos of his collarbone, his jaw, his shoulders, his knees. He’s fucking everywhere, and I just know that behind the scenes he had to have been naked. 

“Art.” That’s what everyone’s calling it. It doesn’t look like art, it looks like high-class soft porn.

Steve told me that, if you can fucking believe it. Steve ‘I hate queers’ Randle. Hypermasculine, called everyone gay, insecure cause he had the hots for his best friend--that Steve Randle. It’s like he became a different person when he started dating the kid Curtis brother. 

That’s why I asked him in the first place. You’d think any sensible guy would be bothered by their boyfriend taking naked photos of someone--especially a hothead like Steve. 

But that was his response, “it’s art, Dallas”, with this lovesick look on his face--and I realized how much I preferred the old Steve. I’d much rather watch him pathetically chase Soda’s ass instead of this ‘love everyone, everything is beautiful’ hippie bullshit. Pony only ever visited Tulsa once or twice a year and Steve only came by to see pretty-boy Curtis, so obviously divine intervention brought them together to fuck with my sanity. 

Both Steve and Darry were the biggest advocates of my being here tonight, cause everyone knew I had no intention of coming. The last thing I wanted to do was stare at millions of grayscale photos of my ex, shirtless, pantless, everything less, all over the room so I can’t escape it--a shot of his chest there, a shot of his elbow there, his thighs right in front of me.

Art? Bullshit. I feel fucking pervy sipping on a martini through a straw, ogling the many marks and scratches on Johnny’s upper thighs. 

That’s the “theme” of Ponyboy’s photo gallery: scars. I think that’s just an excuse to distract from the _nude_ issue at hand. 

Something really irks me, I can tell it’s beyond just the naked thing and that pisses me off even more. And suddenly I’m much more jealous than I think I’m allowed to be. You can’t really claim territory over your ex, I mean even in a relationship that’s a pretty shitty thing to do--shitty and petty as I was, I never tried to control Johnny. And sure, in heated moments I’d whisper shit like “you’re mine,” but I never really believed that.

I have no right to be mad, that’s the awful thing. I have no right to care about the hundreds of people in the building, staring at my ex-boyfriend; but I do, I care a lot. I really fucking care, especially remembering all the times he hid away, refused to open up; remembering the way it took him months to trust me--to show the scars he’s practically parading around on eight by ten canvases. 

I really am an asshole. 

Often, I’ll look at myself and think: this is why you got dumped three years ago. It’s not a real nice feeling to have--some may call it “deprecating.” But think about it, Johnny Cade, the kid who wouldn’t hurt a fly unless he had to, broke up with me. Packed his bags, handed me the spare key to our apartment, and broke up with me. How awful of a person do I have to be for that to happen? My guess: pretty bad.

It wasn’t even that long of a relationship. We flirted all throughout high school, we messed around junior year, I asked him out on prom night. And then it all ended two years later.

Two years. 

When your break-up’s longer than your relationship, I think that’s a pretty good sign you’re not getting back together. It’s been a while since I ever had that hope.

That’s why I didn’t wanna come tonight, I think. I’m finally starting to move on--well, I’m starting to want to move on--but I know that if I just saw him, if I just heard his voice, then…

“Dallas?”

Shit.

“Dallas, is that you?”

Three years and that voice is still unmistakable. Maybe a little lower than I remember, maybe older, but it’s in the way he says my name--that hasn’t changed at all. 

It’s him.

Dickish as it may sound, I’m on the verge of walking away, casually pretending as if I didn’t hear or recognize him--I mean, it’s not like I looked so it wouldn’t be entirely unbelievable. And I’m about to before I feel a soft palm catch my shoulder. 

“Hey.” Johnny’s familiar smile greets me when I turn my head, brown eyes still wide--wide and giddy, giddy for whatever reason. He looks. Happy. 

That’s the opposite of how I feel right now so, yeah, I don’t really get it. 

My voice is caught in my throat. There he is, right in front of me, for the first time in three years--curly, black hair tamed for the night but still shaggy, cut near his ears, fitted blue jeans and a button up shirt. I have to respond, right? That’s the polite thing to do, and yet I can’t. I mean, what if I say something stupid, I think it’s best for the both of us that I stay quiet. 

But he’s giving me this look, this expression that strikes me the same way it did all those years ago, like he wants me to say something. Like he wants me. And I can’t resist him, I never could and I still can’t.

“Hey,” I choke out. 

His face kind of lights up when I speak, like he’s so happy I’m interacting with him. This sensation starts fluttering in my stomach, I don’t know if I can call it butterflies ‘cause it makes me feel sick. “I didn’t know you were gonna be here, I got so excited when I saw you.”

I nod dumbly and laugh, or at least I try to, “Yeah, I didn’t know you’d be here either.”

“At my own art exhibit?” He scrunches his face, that silly thing he does when he’s confused, and tilts his head too--it's like I’m being drowned in the memories of knowing him.

My chest feels tight, so tight--like one wrong move and I’m gonna burst or something. “Well, I don’t know, isn’t this like a two day thing? I thought maybe you’d come, like, tomorrow or-”

Johnny giggles. Giggles. And man, I really, really, am not prepared to handle this. “You never miss opening night, Dallas.”

“I’ll keep that in mind then,” I say.

His focus on me is intent, there’s something about the way he looks at you--it almost makes you feel like at that very moment, you gotta be the most interesting thing in the universe, that look makes you feel special, seen. 

He reaches up and runs his hand through my hair--and I’m just so goddamned shocked he’s touching me, really touching me, I can’t even pull away. “God, your hair-”

“It’s shorter, I know.”

“It’s brown!” he says excitedly, fingers still curled by the nape of my neck, him on his tip toes to reach me, he’s so so close. “I mean, I knew you bleached it but, wow, I never thought I’d actually be able to see it naturally. This is insane. I didn’t even recognize you.”

“Yeah,” I manage weakly, body hot, stiff, ready, at alert--like my fight or flight reflexes are kicking in, but I’m just frozen as he stands in front of me. “Dyeing takes a lot of effort and I’ve gotten pretty lazy over the years.”

He finally pulls away then, stepping back and looking at me with awe. 

It’s unfair, I think.

This is all so unfair. 

“So,” he starts, bouncing up besides me on the balls of his feet, “are you enjoying the exhibit?”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” I say.

His lip curls all amused-like and he lowers his chin to his shoulder. “Just alright?”

Panic.

“It’s great, then.”

Smooth, I think--wishing I could throttle myself or jump off a bridge. It’s like no matter what I do or say, I just sound like a fucking asshole. 

But he laughs again, so heartfelt. “I’m just kidding, I know this isn’t your thing.”

Huh.

I scoff, “You _know?_ ”

His response is quick but steady, words slow and paced, smile cheeky, voice light--a smartass like always with a razor sharp tongue. “Unless you’ve become an art enthusiast since I last saw you.”

Johnny doesn’t talk often, but when he does it’s like a verbal tug of war. And you gotta be fast and exciting and careful--cause if he looses interest or gets scared you never know if he’s gonna speak to you like that again. 

“Maybe I have.”

“I’d pay to see that,” he laughs. “Honestly. It was a little funny, seeing you in a gallery.”

He’s so smug.

“Can’t be that funny.” I shrug. 

There’s a glint in eye and in his dimple, he’s having fun--I can tell. I just know he’s teasing me, analyzing me and overthinking every word in that mind of his. I wish I had a glimpse into his brain right now, I’d be a hell of a lot less nervous. “You would have made fun of yourself three years ago.”

I turn away from him and to a picture nearby; it’s one of his cheek. The shadow of his eyelashes frame this long scar, the one that plagued him for years. Seeing it up close reminds me of the moments I would hold his face in my hand and whisper over that very spot, I try shaking the memory away. 

“It’s different.”

He walks closer to me, maybe too close, I can feel his body and the lack of space between us--it makes my stomach lift. “Why? Because it’s pictures of me?”

Teasing me, again, like the little shit he is. 

“And why do you need to know that, Johnny?” I ask, cold. Or at least, trying to sound cold--but his charmed reaction let’s me know I’m not as harsh as I’d like to seem.

“It was just a question, Dallas,” he says flatly. “Besides there’s nothing wrong with supporting your friend.”

Friend.

I think over that word for a while. I think about it so much I’m sure I forget what it means. 

“I’m here to support Ponyboy.” I say it curt, I say it blunt, I say it to hurt his feelings.

And for a second I think I’ve failed, Johnny can always see right through my performative bullshit. But his grin does this little twitch and his eyes go soft--I’m half satisfied and half pissed at myself. 

“Oh,” his voice is tight. “So it has nothing to do with me.”

Like the asshole I am, I keep digging the knife in, cause I guess just one insult isn’t enough for me. “Why would it?”

He’s quick when he responds, unlike usual where he thinks over his witty words and then replies in a genuine, but lighthearted tone. No. Hastily he says, “We’re friends.”

I’m almost offended at that thought, the idea of us being friends. It’s, well, it’s a little ridiculous. I mean, we’re not lovers anymore, but we aren’t anything anymore, I don’t think we can be. “Do friends go years without speaking?”

And now he’s pensive, retreating into himself and thinking about whatever words he’ll say next.

I wonder if that even matters to him, our three years of absolute silence. Not one letter, not one call. Sure, I didn’t reach out first but the dumpee never reaches out first--that’s the responsibility of the dumper. Johnny had nothing to say to me so I resigned to the fact that I had nothing to say to him--apart from the many drunk calls at three in morning where he answered and I tried my best to sob quietly, so he wouldn’t know it was me.

“Okay,” he says, “we’re weird friends. That’s just what happens when you have history.”

“History,” I laugh bitterly. 

“Yes, history.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

Johnny’s quiet now. With anyone else, he’d take that silence and leave with it, with his friends, he likes to settle into it and make it comfortable. I guess it’s different with me, I’m not a stranger but I’m not close to him either--not like I used to be. And we have ‘history.’ So instead of walking away from the awkward buzz between us he forces himself to stay. He’s not looking at me, I’m not looking at him, we’re waiting for each other to talk.

But he glances at me a little, I can feel it, and it’s like I owe it to him to speak. I can’t imagine why. He broke up with me, not the other way around. I shouldn’t feel guilty like I do. 

Then again, chances are I was the worst boyfriend all along so. Maybe I should. 

“So this modeling thing,” I say, “is it a hobby of yours?”

He smiles. It’s soft this time, not smug, and that fluttering in my stomach isn’t sickening anymore--I feel the butterflies plain as day. “I guess you could say that. I never considered it before, but Pony took some pictures of me back for his final portfolio. He says I look good in front of a camera. Never thought I’d hear that before, ever.”

Sincere. He sounds so sincere. I can barely stand it, it makes me wanna fall in love.

“What are you, his muse?”

Jesus. Can’t have a normal conversation, can you?

His eyes twinkle again, I can tell he’s back to teasing me. “Maybe.”

I think I frown without realizing. I’m pretty sure I do. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice pitched, “friends can be muses.”

“You have a lot of friends now, don’t you?” I wish I could shut myself up. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He doesn’t even sound the slightest bit offended, I know he’s enjoying this.

Either way, I can’t seem to can it. “It’s just strange to me that I’m the only one who thinks the whole photography thing is weird. Like, being naked in front of your ‘friend,’ that isn’t weird to you?”

Then he giggles again, my ears feel warm. “No, because it’s art.”

I roll my eyes and huff. “Everyone says that, it’s a lousy excuse.”

“Excuse?” He asks incredulously. “Excuse for what?” And now he’s looking at me like he genuinely expects a response, but I can’t seem to get a word out after realizing how embarrassing I must look. Johnny still doesn’t seem to be offended, if anything he’s becoming more amused by the second. “Oh my God, Dallas, you’ve always been so dramatic.”

Huh?

“Me?”

He nods. “Yes, you.”

“Me? Dramatic.”

“You. Dramatic.”

“I’m not the one who played Gentlemen Prefer Blondes every Sunday and sang I Feel Pretty in the shower.”

When he grins at me, I can’t help but notice how close we are--face to face, me standing just in front of him, eyes locking on each other and hands that could touch. I don’t know if he realizes, but he seems interested again, those devilish dimples back in his cheeks. “I’m theatrical, not dramatic, there’s a difference.”

We’re too close, I think. I step away. “You’re still not acknowledging how weird it is, by the way.”

He laughs and rolls his eyes. “Ponyboy and I have absolutely no sexual attraction to each other, so no. It didn’t even cross my mind. Besides, he wouldn’t cheat on Steve. Ever. He’s been in love with him ever since he was, like, eight. I don’t think I can really compete against that.”

I look over to Pony in that moment, by the large, glass double doors that’ll remain wide open for the rest of the night. He’s dressed pristine(slicked back hair, shiny shoes), but artistic(colorful scarf, these wackass pants), with the air of a native new yorker--kid really fits into the place--all together making Steve look foreign compared to him--they haven’t separated since this afternoon, the art community of the big city seems pretty accepting. Seeing them cling to each other and thinking over Johnny’s words makes me feel a little dumb, I guess--why would Pony cheat on Steve? 

And now I'm stupid and embarrased. 

“Still weird,” I mumble.

Johnny’s practically beaming, he’s entertained by my misery--I just know it. “What are you, jealous?”

Yes. 

Of course I am.

But you don’t deserve to know that.

I feel it swell in my chest, that residing anger, but I do my best to ignore it. All these years, I’ve done all I could not to get mad at Johnny--and even though I didn’t really know why he left me I found ways to blame myself, any excuse so I didn’t have to blame him. 

Sure it made me depressed, super depressed. Like. Near overdoses and alcoholic comas depressed. Darry had to check me into a support group depressed. And recommend me to a therapist depressed. And let me move into his house because I got evicted and gave me a job because I got fired depressed. But I could handle self hatred, I’d been handling it all my life long. I couldn’t bare the thought of hating Johnny Cade.

I took it all those years, still loving him, still hoping for the best. And I do love him, I really do, but him right now, in front of me, laughing at my jealousy, running his fingers through my hair, touching me, jesus, I’m a little angry.

I didn’t want to date him, I avoided him as much as possible, I told him I’d hurt him. But he kept pursuing me, insisted he’d always love me, insisted I was a good person, made me feel, for once, like I deserved to have one fucking decent thing in my life. And for a second, I believed that I deserved him, I really did.

Then he dumped me. Without even telling me why. He just said, “we need space.”

And here he is now, knowing that I’m still so desperately in love with him. And just… 

“Why do you wanna know?” I ask.

He stiffens a little when I speak, I couldn’t keep the edge out of my voice--doubt I even tried to--and shrugs. “I’m just asking.”

“Does it matter if I am?”

“Dallas,” he says softly, shying away from me. “I was just asking.”

My heart squeezes when he looks away.

Bullshit.

It’s bullshit I’m over here, feeling bad for hurting his feelings, when I’m sure he never cared about mine.

He wouldn’t have left me if he did, he knew how much I needed him. And those years on my own, I could barely hold it together.

I still care, I can’t help myself. Just like how I still love him. That pained look on his face, it may be stupid of me but I can’t stand it.

“They’re really beautiful, by the way.”

When he looks up at me, the light catches in his eyes, it’s like they’re sparkling. They’re so big and wide, like a cartoon character’s, I’d make fun of him all the time for that. I always loved his beautiful eyes and how telling they were. “What? The pictures?”

“Yeah.”

He smiles faintly and my heart flips at the sight of it. “Am I allowed to say thank you?”

I scoff and scratch behind my ear, I can practically feel the way Johnny livens up when I do that, he knows all my fidgets and quirks by memory--like there’s a little Dallas encyclopedia in his brain where he files all my twiddling. “Why are you asking me?”

“You know why.” he says in a coy voice. “Are you calling me beautiful or just the pictures--I didn’t really have a hand in those.”

I shouldn’t respond. I shouldn’t.

“The pictures. And you. You look, you know, beautiful in them.”

He knew the answer, he must have, but he looks surprised--maybe he didn’t think I would admit that out loud. And he’s quiet for a beat or two before smiling. “Thank you.”

Johnny’s cheeks are red, his feet are fidgeting, his hands are clasped behind his back.

Maybe I’m stupid, but I can’t help but think… Is this…. Are we-

“You look great now. Too. By the way.” Oh jesus, I can’t shut up again. 

But he laughs. My body feels weightless. “Thanks.”

“I guess Pony was right, you look good in front of a camera.”

“Thanks, Dal,” he says. “I’ve actually gotten a few offers which is… so bizarre to me. I mean, I could never imagine, in all my life, me modeling.”

I think my brain fried when he called me ‘Dal.’ I think it made me lose all my inhibitions. “Why not? You’ve always been…”

Beautiful. 

“I’ve always been what?”

“You know.”

Beautiful, I wanna say beautiful. I wanna scream it and make him blush even more, make him stumble over his words the way he used to when we were young, then he’d go right back at it and make me forget my own name, forget I existed as anything other than the boy who loved him.

That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. His. 

Being confronted with the reality that I wasn’t his anymore, it was like I died. 

I learned to live without him, but he’s here now. So close, and flushing and grinning and talking to me, touching my hair, laughing with me, flirting, I think, Maybe… if I just reach out a little more. Maybe we could… 

A shadow creeps up behind Johnny. I pretend to not notice it at first, when it draws near and I choose to peg it as another curious visitor--admiring the photography. Then it starts getting too close for comfort, the 'it' being a man, around my age, tan and slender and tall. And for some reason a part of me stirs, like I just know this is gonna ruin the night we barely started piecing together. 

Right as I start hoping the guy is gonna pass by us, right as Johnny opens his mouth to say something, right as his lips curve into one of the few genuine smiles of the night, the man claps his hand on Johnny's shoulder. 

I feel my eye twitch. 

Johnny jumps a little at the sudden touch. It irks me a bit--if you knew him well enough you wouldn't touch him so suddenly. I almost want to reach out and soothe him, then I want to draw him close and refuse to give him back, then maybe kiss him or something--truth be told I've been wanting to kiss him all night long. 

He smiles at the guy, soft but insincere, and cups his face with a hand--it takes all my strength not to scream--, "Oh, hey." 

"Hey," the man says, "I've missed you all night long." His gaze slides over to me and he gives me this long look, one that goes down then up then down again--and he does this little grin that pisses me off, pisses me off almost as much as the way he's so unnecessarily clinging to Johnny. "Hi, I'm Aaron." 

"Dallas," is my response. Curt, blunt, more callow than I'd like to admit. "Who are you?" 

His eyebrow raises and my god he looks like such a dick. "Aaron? I'm Johnny's date." 

"Oh." 

Johnny's date. 

And on the topic of him, Johnny says nothing. Only looks at me with those wide eyes, something like expectancy sprinkled in all that brown. I don't know what he wants from me, maybe this is another attempt of his to provoke me. 

Then again, he didn't think I was coming tonight. So maybe he isn't just stringing this guy along. And who can guess how long they've known each other--judging by how touchy feely they are, seems like quite some time. 

Jesus, and I thought I was jealous of Ponyboy. What I felt a few minutes ago doesn't even compare to this, watching Johnny get groped by a complete asswipe.

"He's my date."

Johnny finally speaks. And those are the last words I want to hear from him. 

Getting angry is futile, even though I can't really stop myself. Not like it'll even amount to anything, some harmless flirting with your ex isn't a sure sign of falling back in love and getting together again. So I might as well just leave them and go on with my day.

Might as well.

The problem is I can't. 

No, all I can do is sip on my martini and watch as they run their hands all over each other and pepper innocent-enough kisses on cheeks and jaws--in between each one, Johnny sneaks a glance at me, I fucking hate him. 

Aaron, noticing I'm not leaving anytime soon, finally let's up from the pda, still giving me this smirk I wanna punch off his face. "So… who are you?"

Johnny's expression is this soft but curious thing, like he wants the answer to that too. 

I try to ignore every little look he gives me and keep drinking--the booze swirls in my mind and I think it's all beginning to sink in. I haven't had that many, but maybe I'm not as used to it considering how long I've gone without alcohol. "I'm Johnny's ex."

Aaron looks between the two of us with wide eyes, his grip on Johnny tightening and my brain going wild at the sight of it. "Really?"

I turn to Johnny with the same nonchalant but curious look he's been passing me all night long. He stares me dead in the eyes and nods. "Yeah. He's my ex."

And for some reason, when he says it like that, it makes my heart sink.

"Jesus," Aaron says, "I didn't think I'd be dealing with ex drama today."

I tear my eyes away from Johnny to glare at him--I still feel the heat of his gaze on me, it's a distinct feeling I'll never be able to ignore. But pushing past the clashing emotions in my stomach and the way my body floats at the prospect of Johnny looking at me, I try my best to send Aaron some kind of homicidal telepathic message with a stare. "Calm down, man, I'm not gonna jump you or anything."

His lip quirks and he does this sort of laugh that's more of a breath, more of a huff. Christ, his face is so punchable. "You sure? Seems like you might."

Johnny's still looking. And for a moment, I try my best to hide any rage I feel, but he can tell no matter what. 

"What? You wanna fight me?"

"I don't want anything, man," Aaron says. "I just wanna enjoy my night."

He's still holding onto Johnny, he's still _touching_ Johnny, and it's making me see red. 

"Great, then get off my case."

His douchebag expression falls into this flat look, like he's matured all of the sudden--somehow it makes him seem like even more of an asshole. "Maybe you should take a breather, man."

At twenty three years old, where I've finally shed however it felt to look, act, and feel like a teenager, my fucked up hormones haven't had me itching for a fight in a while. But right now, in the middle of an art gallery, I wanna smash this dick's face in the wall.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying, you're coming off really strong and you're making us uncomfortable."

"I don't need you to speak for me," Johnny says, finally speaking from his silent spot in Aaron's arms--I guess no longer content with watching me make an absolute asshole of myself for his own entertainment. 

I inch closer to the two of them, arm practically reaching out like it's about to grab Johnny and save him. "I don't think I'm the one making him uncomfortable."

"And don't you speak for me either." He shrugs out of his date's grip, huffing with this peeved pout, and looking up at me like I just ruined his play date or something. 

I roll my eyes and back away. "Whatever."

"I think you need to go outside, man."

Jesus fucking Christ, can this guy shut the fuck up?

"Want me to take you out with me?" I ask. 

Aaron's face twists into this ugly expression when he's angry, and I can only imagine how painful it is making everyday conversation with something as dreadful as him. "What's your fucking problem man, all this over your ex?"

I feel like I'm reaching my limit. Like at any moment I could slam this guy against the wall and knock him in the jaw. "What's _your_ fucking problem, man?"

"Dallas," suddenly Johnny’s standing in front of me, looking up with his eyes blank, tired, almost exhausted, and his lips tight and flat--the kind of look a mother gives her kid right before yelling at them, "you smell like alcohol."

And that makes me more self conscious than I'd like to admit.

I take a step back, only then realizing how Aaron and I had been dangerously closing in on each other, and put a hand over my mouth--involuntarily letting out a little breath so I could smell. 

The embarrassment of the night starts dawning on me as if I just sobered up in a split second.

"It was only two fucking martinis." I mumble as I walk past Johnny and Aaron, finally pressing through the crowd around me and out the double doors, deciding this should be, unfortunately, the best way to end my night. 

I almost wanna deck Johnny when he walks in front of me. Not actually, I would never dream of hitting him. But in an objective sense, like if this were anyone else, I'd wanna hit them. 

I can tell it's him just by his shoes--as much as he cleaned up today he seemed to insist on wearing his old, white sneakers, the one the gang got him for his birthday when we all pitched in. But I don't wanna look up and meet his eyes, cause the shame is starting to creep in and all I wanna do is stay bunched up here, the alley near the gallery, and die. 

He crouches down, I can hear the shifting, the shuffles of his shoes against the pavement. "I didn't want to see you like this."

My heart squeezes at the sound of his voice. Soft. But like he's disappointed.

I can't help but ask…

"Did you even wanna see me at all?"

He sucks in a deep breath, like he's in disbelief, and lets it out so quickly. I can feel his bundle of nervous energy radiating off of him and it isn't helping in calming me down. "Of course I did. I was hoping you'd be here today."

That's when I look at him, but I immediately regret it. His eyes always make me wanna melt. I just wanna lean forward and let him hold me. "And you brought your boyfriend to make me jealous."

"Date," he says bluntly, "not boyfriend. I only met him the other day for a hookup, I asked if he wanted to be my plus one."

I don't know how to respond to that, I only stare with what must be an incredulous look on my face because he chuckles. 

"Yeah, I'm not a good person, Dallas. I know you've always wanted me to be, I know that's what I've always been to you, but I'm not, you know. I'm human and I'm selfish and I'm an asshole and… I liked seeing you jealous today."

I laugh. It's bitter. "I knew you did, it was all over your fucking face."

He smiles a little, the corner of his mouth twisting up, his dimples showing. "You're always so fun to tease until you get drunk."

"I'm not drunk, it's two martinis."

He ducks his head down, absentmindedly playing with the cracked pieces of stone on the pavement, scraping his hands against the ground softly and then wiping them on his jeans. "Did you really just come for Ponyboy?"

I don't want to lie to him. I feel like he's begging me to be honest.

I want him to be honest too.

"I didn't wanna see you."

His face kind of crumbles. I wanna lean in and kiss the tight creases of worry on his skin. "Do you hate me for what I did?"

I don't know how he could even ask a question like that. As if I could ever.

"Sometimes I feel I might," I say. "But I can't, you know I can't."

He purses his lips, shakes his head softly, looks so pained I don't know what to do with myself. 

"I wish you would," he's so quiet when he says it, "I wanted you to change."

That's it, I think. Like a bulb lights over my head. That's why he left.

"Because I was a terrible boyfriend?"

"God no," he says--quick enough to be convincing but not too hasty, earnest like a desperate hand reaching out to be held, like a body begging to be comforted. "I loved you. And I couldn't stand to always see you hurt like you were."

Hurt.

"I wasn't hurt."

"Yes you were."

"I had you," I say. "Life was perfect with you."

"No it wasn't."

He keeps contradicting me. And it feels like TV static, it feels like an overcrowded lunch room, like ringing in my ears.

I don't know what to do with myself, I don't know what to do with myself, I don't know what to do with myself.

"Just because it wasn't for you doesn't mean it wasn't for me, you were all I needed."

"Dallas," firm when he says, strong, he wants me to listen, this is it, it sounds like honesty already. "My life with you… it seemed perfect. But that's the thing, it really wasn't."

I say nothing, only wait for him to continue. He does. "I just moved out of my parents house with someone who didn't hit me, someone who didn't call me a piece of shit everytime I made a mistake. Anything was better than what I had before. And you made me feel so happy like… I didn't want anything better for myself. I thought that was as good as it was gonna get. I had no goals, no ambitions, I didn't want anything for myself."

He takes in a deep breath, there's more to say, so much more--I don't know how much I can bare. "And anytime I did, I felt guilty, like the only thing I was allowed to want was you. And my brain started getting so fucked up, like I was so happy all the time that I wasn't really happy. Like nothing was real. And whenever I felt upset or anything I didn't talk about it because I didn't wanna ruin what we had. I started realizing how fragile we were and how easy it would be to break us and then I got so scared I didn't want to let you go and then I got scared of myself. You were my life, and, I never imagined that for myself as a kid. You know? I didn't grow up thinking: one day I wanna be some guy's sorry excuse of a trophy wife. I wanted more and I felt like shit for wanting more and I felt like shit for feeling like shit. I felt like we were holding each other back. So I broke it off."

It only takes me a few seconds to absorb every word, probably not as long as Johnny would like me to reflect. I guess I just can't take the time to think over it all, I don't want to. 

"That's why you broke up with me?"

"Yes."

"Because we were holding each other back?"

"Yes."

My brain. It feels like scrambled eggs. Sizzling. Hot oil. I don't know, it's almost hilarious. Like there's so much I can say, but does it matter? If I do, if I don't, what can you do with something that's broken? 

Honesty. That's what we both want. And when I speak, I guess I stop caring about what I say, how pathetic I sound. It doesn't matter. "I didn't grow up wanting anything, Johnny. All I wanted was my family. And when I didn't get that, well, I didn't know what else there was to have. I just gave up. You were the one thing I didn't give up on. So yeah, I had no goals, or ambitions, I didn't need them. All I needed was you."

He shakes his head. "But that's not right."

"I didn't care."

"Do you care now?"

Then I'm angry, then I'm mad. I feel my fists clench and every urge is flashing through my body like I can't stand just staying here, staying still, and being a loser. Like I can't stand Johnny, like I can't stand myself, I can't stand anything. "Why don't you just say it, Johnny? Your life's better with me. Just go ahead and say it."

And he looks at me blankly before he says it, blankly like all that's on his mind is: fuck it, might as well, "Fine. It is better."

Jesus.

"What else do you want? Look at me, Dallas. There are fucking pictures of me hanging in an art exhibit in New York fucking City-"

"I get it-"

"So yes my life is better-"

"I get it!"

"Isn't yours?"

I snap my head up, so furious I'm not even sure how to speak, how to act, how to move. So angry all my senses have left me dry and all I know is this piercing hot feeling tearing through my throat. "Are you seriously asking me that?"

"Isn't it?"

Isn't it?

Is he fucking kidding me?

All my life, I never had one good thing. There was my mom and she died, didn't care about me enough to stay. There was my dad and he abandoned me, didn't care enough about me to be a man. Overall, I was just used to shitty things, all I knew was shitty, and I didn't expect anything more than shitty.

So Johnny, god, Johnny didn't even seem real. The way he looked at me, kissed me, held me, each day I convinced myself it was all gonna slip away. And when he whispered pleads in my neck, murmured "I love you" over my skin, I convinced myself it was all an illusion, I shouldn't be taking it too seriously.

But all too soon, I fell in love with him. I probably fell in love with him since I first saw him. And there was a distinct second in my life when we lived together and woke up one morning, and I pulled him close and that was the first time in my life I wasn't worried he was gonna leave me. The first time.

Then he did. He just left.

So I could grow. So my life could get better.

And on some days I would sit by the apartment door and my brain would screech in my mind over and over that he wasn't coming back, and it was worse than my mother's overdose, worse than my dad yelling at me to call 911, it was all so bad. 

It was like I never felt so lonely in my entire life, and all because for a singular moment I was happy. 

Better? How could it get better. 

The months upon months I spent trapped alone, Darry banging on my door, begging me to be let in, Darry paying off my landlord so he could pack for me right before I got evicted, my boss's endless calls and the realization those were the only rings my phone would get--but I checked it anyways, every morning for a sign maybe. The bars, the drugs, the hospital. Everyone looking at me like I was a second away from dying, and I already felt dead.

All because the one person I let myself love left me. How can my life get better from that?

Sure I learned how to move on, sure I got a new job and a new apartment, but I still feel that wound in me fresh. Granted, I don't feel it as much as I used to but I feel it, sometimes.

I think about Johnny almost every day and I get reminded of the pain. But a year or two ago I'd get rid of it by downing a drink or smoking something, now I just try to get through it like an itch you can't scratch. And that's what it's like: an itch. Pestering, persistent. 

But it's not as bad as it was back then, I think. No. It really isn't.

Johnny was all I had back then and all I had disappeared in a day. Life crumbled real easily after that, like toppled over building blocks, and it seemed impossible to fix and yet somehow I managed it. 

There was Darry, Darry who I owe half of my sanity to. Darry who insisted on being by side when I thought no one else was. Then there was the therapist he recommended, the diagnosis, the lithium, the medication, the reminders on my phone to take my pills, the click like my life is slowly starting to make sense. 

Darry put me in that support group and we didn't have the money for rehab, it was too easy for me to just take a hit every now and then and lie to my group members, say I've been however days clean. No one would know the difference but me. But for some reason, I guess I actually wanted the help. One day I realized that all my life, I've been craving help, some kind of connection, some kind of support. 

The gang likes to tell me I owe that to myself. I helped myself, I wanted better. And I did. Because I guess it dawned on me that there was more to life than just giving up before the day begins.

And suddenly, I don't know how to describe it, it was like the grinch where his heart grows three sizes. Cause all my life I insisted on not loving anyone, closing myself to the world, looking out for number one. And occasionally, maybe someone would pique my interest, but all in all I never let myself love too much cause I was scared to. But then I started loving everyone, and it was so weird.

The gang always called themselves a family, but they actually became my family. And my life kind of brightened up a bit, like everything went technicolor. Two-Bit was funnier, Pony was kinder, Steve was agreeable, for once. And I loved Soda and I loved Darry and I loved Tim and I loved so many people I felt like I could burst, and now I love them. I see them and I feel euphoric with every joke, hug, conversation. I didn't know I could love like that. 

And, god, sometimes it feels so beautiful I can barely stand it. And sometimes even when everything hurts I know I have more than one person to turn to. And sometimes I'm so happy I don't know what to do with myself. Happy in a way I've never ever felt. 

So happy that I guess…

I guess my life is kind of better, huh. 

Isn't it, Johnny had asked.

"Yeah," I say, feeling breathless. Feeling like a character in a movie during the third act. Feeling like a new person, almost. "Yeah, I, uh, I guess it is."

I look up, realizing Johnny had been staring at me this whole time. His brown eyes are shiny, glossed up and hopeful. 

"Really?" He asks. 

"Yeah. Yes."

He makes this noise, like a giddy shriek but soft, nothing louder than a gasp of air, running his hands through his hair and over his face, like he just can't help himself. "God, that's amazing. All I've ever wanted was for you to be happy, Dallas."

I chuckle. "Really?"

"Yeah." He nods eagerly, lips curving into an uncontrollable smile. "I even tried checking in on you for a while these past few years. Especially during the first months of our break up, I called all the time but Darry wouldn't let me talk to you."

Wait.

"What?"

Johnny shrugs as if it's no big deal--which, mind you, it very much fucking is. "Yeah, he said we needed space from each other to grow."

"That fucker," I say, "I'm gonna beat his ass."

He giggles, and I relish in the sweet sound of it floating in the air and the butterflies it makes me feel. "But I think he was right in the end." Johnny purses his lips and cocks his head to the side a little, rolling his shoulders, "Even though it was painful."

Painful, I think. 

I don't think I ever stopped to imagine how it was for Johnny all these years. I guess I assumed, as the dumper, life must have been going great for him.

"Was it that bad for you too?" I ask. 

He nods slowly, and the smile on his lips tugs downwards sometimes, like it's sad--I wanna kiss the corners of his mouth, make him laugh again. "I couldn't even get out of bed in the mornings. You know, I wasn't supposed to live in New York but I was too depressed to leave Pony's apartment. But then he forced me to get off my ass, get a job, and split the rent. And then he took pictures of me for his portfolio. When he said I had a real knack for modeling, I felt different. I don't know, working and living in New York, it all felt different. And everywhere I went I was reminded of you. I always thought to myself: has Dallas ever been here? Would he give me a tour? At first it hurt but… then it felt like you were with me or something, I don't know, sounds sappy doesn't it?"

"Yeah."

I feel kind of stupid for responding like that, but that's all I can say. I don't think I'm emotionally prepared to digest everything he just said to me. 

Johnny just chuckles, his grin all bright again. It takes all the power I have not to reach out and touch him.

"It may seem stupid," he starts, "but I left because I wanted what was best for you. I know that you've never really had a good relationship, and I knew back then, compared to everyone else, you probably worshiped me. I didn't want that. I loved you and I wanted to just be loved. I wanted us to work and last long and trust each other, I loved you so much I wanted you to really really really be happy. And I've never stopped loving you, Dal."

My lungs. I think they stopped working.

"You still love me?" 

I know I sound pathetic, but I can't help myself, not when Johnny's giving me that look. And I know he revels in my stupidity so I might as well give him a show tonight.

I don't wanna lie right now, even if I look like a dumb kid. 

"I think about you almost everyday," he breathes.

God. I love him so much. 

My mind suddenly snaps to Aaron back in the gallery, probably wandering around for his date like an idiot--and that thought alone makes me wanna laugh.

"With that hookup in there," I gesture to the building with my chin, "were you thinking about-"

He answers before I even finish my question, a blunt, "Yes."

Johnny tends to be straight to the point when he wants to be--and he never fails to make me feel like a flustered teenage boy even when I'm not.

"That was a day or two ago," he says, "and Pony was talking about the guys from Tulsa coming over and I prayed to god you would be here. You've been on my mind all week it was driving me crazy. And when I saw you, god, I just had to touch you. I felt almost stupid, you know? I've been working on myself for three years, trying to learn how to love you without needing you, how to want you in all the right ways. But as soon as I laid my eyes on you, it was like I was head over heels again. It took all my effort not to just…"

I hold my breath.

"Not to what?"

He doesn't answer, instead he just smiles--it's all twisted and wicked and I know he's getting to tease me again.

"Your phone," he says, holding out his open palm to me. I open it up and hand it to him, watching as his fingers fly over my screen and he grins in satisfaction, giving it back to me with a beam in his eyes--I notice he's sent a random contact a text that reads 'dal'. "My number, we should start talking again. Maybe clean yourself up and we can catch some coffee on Friday? If you're not gone by then."

"I'll be there." 

"Good."

He stands up and so do I, our bodies meeting up right in the middle of thr near dark alley. Lights from the traffic jam next to us are illuminating his face, white blue and green flashing over his round cheeks and long eyelashes, shining in the curls of his hair, and it's so much to bare, I can't believe I managed to control myself at all tonight. He's been in front of me this whole and all I had to do was reach out, hold him, touch him. 

"Kiss me," I say.

I'm not thinking. But I don't care. 

Johnny can't fight the ear to ear smile on his face, little shit's probably not even trying--and I wonder how long he's been waiting for me to make a move. "I think I'd be cheating, technically, on poor Aaron."

Playing coy, like always.

I finally touch him, just his hands with mine. And his fingers are so warm against my cool ones, I beg them closer with little caresses, my thumb running up to his wrist and down to his knuckles. "I thought you said you weren't a good person."

Another grin. "Good point."

And then there it is, the final event of the night. Our bodies and faces closing the space between us, our lips hovering for a just moment before catching and then BOOM cue the fireworks, because I'm kissing Johnny Cade for the first time in three years and it feels so goddamn lovely I don't know how I survived all this time without it.

It's only a little whisper, a ghost and a feathery touch, all too close to being a peck because he pulls away so soon and I look back at him with a face so pleading I can feel it. And it's been too long for me to take this, just this, so I tangle my hands in his hair and beg him forward, and then he meets me halfway. 

Now I'm pushed against the wall with his grip on my collar, pulling me to him and then slamming me back, moving me with his mouth and laughing at every clumsy move we make, every clack of teeth, every sloppy tongue. I keep my fingers on his head, asking him to stay over and over again with every surge forward, with every tug on his hair, and with each moment I release one hand to touch him elsewhere--his hip, his waist, his neck, his collarbone, anywhere he'll let me. I wanna cry into our kiss, I want to get on my knees, I don't want him to leave, I want us to stay here forever.

Three years learning to live without him and it's all going to shit because of one make out session, pretty comical.

But we have to part eventually, and sooner than later he laughs as he nips my ear, breathing heavily on my cheek and catching his breath with every snort. I can't help but chuckle too each little break I get from kissing his jaw. He pulls away again, sighing before crashing our lips together for a second, just a second, and then leaving me cold.

I can't do anything but stare at him in awe. Because I'm in love and I know I'll always be in love. And I have to tell him because I have to be honest now. 

"I love you."

He goes red, I can tell even in the shadows of the building, and buries his face into my neck, planting one tiny kiss there and leaning back. "At least take me to dinner first."

He's insistent on getting back to the show, and eventually I let him, releasing my grip on his coat and watching him walk away, leaning back against the wall and sighing. Cause tonight sure as hell has been quite a night. 

"Friday," Johnny calls over his shoulder just before dipping out the corner, "text me!"

I nod and laugh, staying still to catch my breath for a while before I get a ping from my phone. 

It's a text from an unsaved contact, but I just know it's Johnny. 

_See ya later ;) I love you <3_


End file.
